


Illusions, Dangling

by voleuse



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-07
Updated: 2005-09-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:30:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He thinks: Beautiful. Beautiful.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Illusions, Dangling

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-movies. Title and summary adapted from Galway Kinnell's _The River That Is East_.

She is sixteen years old. She is a runaway. She is thirsty.

The ragged stripes on her back are only echoes of the past, but they still sting when she remembers their application.

The skiff she floats in once belonged to a rich man who thought she was pretty.

She gave him scars of his own.

She's been drifting for four days, because she's afraid of what awaits her on the shore.

*

 

She wakes when the hull scrapes against sand.

There's a man standing above her. He's smiling.

She crouches back, looks around.

The beach is deserted, save for them.

"What's your name, lass?" he asks her.

She's too dehydrated to spit at his feet, so she conveys the gesture with a glare.

He nods, as if he expected that as an answer. He leans forward, offers her a hand, and the beads twined his hair click together.

She grabs hold of the boat's edge, hauls herself out, staggers past him without comment.

Behind her, he chuckles.

*

 

His home, if it is his home, is barely more than a shack. The boards are rotted in places, and there's a gaping hole in a corner of the roof.

But there's food on the table and clean bedding heaped in the corner.

She continues to ignore him, and he allows her to do so.

She gulps water directly from the pitcher, gnaws on a piece of bread.

She stumbles to the bed and lies down with her back to him.

She falls asleep with her hand on her knife, certain she'll have to use it soon.

*

 

She opens her eyes to moonlight, and the sound of a crackling fire.

"My name's Jack," he says from his seat at the table.

Her hand is cramped around the knife's hilt. She releases it, reluctantly, to stretch her fingers.

Her mouth is dry again, but she's not ready to approach him yet.

He watches her, and she watches him.

There's a bottle on the table. He doesn't drink from it, but his rings scrape against the glass as he clutches it.

Finally, she replies, "Anamaria."

It feels like surrender, and she hates that. She promised herself she wouldn't.

So she stands, forces her unsteady legs into a stride. She takes the bottle from his hand, and exposes her neck as she drinks.

When the bottle hits the table, his expression acknowledges the challenge.

He sets a pistol on the table. Then a dagger and its sheath. He lays his hands on the table, palms up.

She reveals her knife, stabs the tip into the table.

He grins, gestures widely at a chair.

She nods, and sits. He pushes a bowl of stew across the table. She takes it.

He watches her eat. She watches him drink.

He gives her the name of a few people, in the town on the other side of the island.

Then he walks out the door.

*

 

She leans against the door's frame and watches the sun rise.

And she claims the horizon as her own.


End file.
